


It Was Four Seconds

by PenelopeAbigail



Series: It Was [1]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Gen, Kidnapping, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-01-31 21:18:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18599596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeAbigail/pseuds/PenelopeAbigail
Summary: The CIA jumped the gun on sending a new agent undercover into S-Company, so Mac and Jack are sent in to retrieve her. Needless to say, things go sideways and Mac is taken for information. Too bad these guys don't speak English, and Mac doesn't speak Greek.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, I'm a little nervous posting this one in particular, because of how violent it is. This first chapter does have some violent violence within, but the real heavy stuff doesn't start until the next chapter. 
> 
> I'm gonna warn you before you get invested, that I wrote this because I needed a fic that dealt with these injuries and couldn't find one. It's a lot of torture with a lot of pain in a lot of paragraphs. 
> 
> Plot? What plot? No porn, but plenty of whump!

This was the mission: find Silvia Garder, discreetly pull her out, and bring her home.

It was simple.

It was _supposed_ to be simple.

Silvia Garder was the CIA agent sent to infiltrate S-Company after Ethan was pulled out. She hadn’t been in long, just over a month. She reported to her handler a week after infiltration, and the CIA has heard nothing since. Radio silence.

So, naturally, the people who successfully exfiltrated Ethan were called in to exfiltrate Silvia. The Phoenix Foundation.

The team was told that this exfil was riskier than the last because of S-Company’s growing suspicion, S-Company’s increased efforts to cover their tracks, and because Silvia was most likely dead, KIA. That last point made the mission risky on its own, because if Silvia was dead, then S-Company for sure knew there was a mole and would then actively be on guard and ready for Silvia’s exfil. They had been caught off guard when Phoenix grabbed Ethan, and they most likely hadn’t appreciated the humiliation of being so surprised.

Matty was taking large steps to ensure the safety of her team, so Jack and Mac were to touch down in Beirut, Lebanon and from there, catch a plane northwest to Larnaca, Cyprus. Flying in directly could be too risky, so this should throw some suspicion off of them.

From there, they were to check into a room of their choosing in Pyrgos. It was out of the way, discreet, and relatively small, so S-Company should have no reason to suspect anything from that location either. They weren’t prebooking it, just to be on the safe side.

Once they had a room to themselves, they would set up communications with Riley, Matty, and Bozer, who were still back in LA. The smaller the exfil team, the greater the likelihood of success.

After that, they were to locate S-Company’s new headquarters. Silvia’s first piece of intel, from that first and only report, was that S-Company was stationing itself in Panagia Asinou, an hour and a half away from where Mac and Jack were to set up. So locating it would be simple, since they already knew where it was. But, there may or may not be a small hitch in their plan. If Silvia was with them and _alive_ , they’d probably still be there, no problem. However, based upon the supposition that Silvia was already dead and S-Company onto them, they would have relocated _again_.

Mac reminded himself that they weren’t after S-Company, but Silvia. Their _only_ mission was to bring her home. So really, they didn’t even need to locate the headquarters, they just needed to locate Silvia.

Jack figured, before Mac even thought about it, that they would start in Panagia, look for clues, interrogate some people, and then pick up a trail.

That was _his_ plan.

Mac reminded him of what their mission was, just like he had to remind himself (even if she were dead, they’d bring her home), and if they found her in Panagia, their mission was over. They didn’t need to locate S-Company. The CIA would hopefully learn from this massive mistake and not send anyone else in for quite some time. That would mean, though, that S-Company intel would either not be gathered, or be gathered from a distance, which was also risky. But that was up to the CIA. The Phoenix Foundation was only lending a helping hand.

Step 1 was a success: touched down in Lebanon without a hitch.

Step 2 was where it went sideways.

Yeah, Jack had periodically checked the rearview mirror for any indication _what_ soever that they had something stuck to their shoe, but he hadn’t found anything. Mac hadn’t been paying attention, just going through different scenarios of what could happen if Silvia wasn’t actually dead, if S-Company found them before they could get her out, if either one of them were to get hurt, if if if—

He didn’t notice what he wasn’t supposed to notice hiding up in the cover of a tree only 50 yards away. He didn’t notice the very well concealed firearm tucked under the tunic of a man on the other side of the street. He didn’t notice the sound of the safety being flicked off on the gun around the corner just 10 yards ahead of him.

They were surrounded and neither of them noticed.

It all happened so fast.

Not a second after his feet hit the ground did three men with AK-47s round the corner, guns leveled, saying something—or _shouting_ — _he didn’t speak this language so he didn’t know what was going on_. They didn’t stop or slow down, just came right at him so fast and grabbed him, all in the span of five seconds.

He didn’t have time to think of something, to think of a counter-action, to think of an escape plan—he was caught off guard, defenseless, and Jack was on the other side of the vehicle, unable to help.

His eyes widened, his hands flew up to defend himself, and he stumbled back into the side of the SUV— _stumbled?_ Or was he _shoved_ by a man with a gun?—either way, he heard Jack behind him fighting while the goon in his face dropped his gun to hang around his neck by a leather strap and punched him hard, knocking his head to the side and into the SUV’s window—he didn’t even have time to panic, to freak out, to assess the situation—he didn’t even have time to _think_ about what was happening before he was punched in the gut, doubling him over as much as possible—but then he _couldn’t_ double over to protect his gut because another goon rushed over and together, the two men latched onto his arms, elbowed him in his ribcage, knocking the breath and struggle out of him again, and began dragging him away.

His lungs refused to inhale, and his vision wavered, but still he tried to get his feet under him, to decrease the friction on his ankles, yet was only rewarded with another punch to his cheek that made his neck hurt, and then another to his temple, so he just gave up struggling to focus on breathing and only breathing and paying attention to where they were going and trying to make out what these guys were saying—

When his lungs were able to work and his eyes focused on the moving pavement, he was already nearing the side of the building from where the men popped out at them, and he realized what was going to happen next—right when it _did_ happen.

More men came at him—his struggles increased at being surrounded—you didn’t need to have a fear of tight spaces to be afraid when surrounded by large men that were very threatening—and the first thing they did was sock him in the face again, this time it was his eye that took the brunt of the force— _he was tired of being punched in the face already and it had only been ten seconds_ —but struggling got him nowhere because two of those men tied his lands together behind his back— _too tight, cord, wire, cold, something metallic that refused to stretch but bit into his skin—_ while one man shoved a greasy rag between his teeth and tied it behind his head before covering him with a blackout bag, tightening it around his neck so that he couldn’t dislodge it— _now it was dark and he couldn’t see his surroundings, how would he escape if he couldn’t see—_ and another pair of men tied his ankles together, rocking him to the side, and he lost his balance, falling and trying to catch himself, but his hands were literally tied, so his left shoulder took the brunt of his weight.

The sudden shock to his shoulder and the reverberation through his neck and head sent his jaw locking up and his teeth clashing around the fabric. He groaned involuntarily— _he would definitely feel that later._

He didn’t struggle as they hoisted him up, but all the air left his lungs as he came none-too-gently down over someone’s shoulder, and his head bounced off the man’s back before he could catch it— _they were carrying him somewhere, where, why, what did they want with him? Was Jack being treated this way too—_ but he couldn’t hear Jack, did they knock him out, or did he fight them off—

Then he was slammed back-first down onto something hard, something unforgivingly hard with sides and edges and his head hurt, pulsed—his bound feet sought purchase somewhere so that he could lever himself up—but then something closed, something loud, echoing slightly— _trunk_ —he was in the trunk of a car—then the car started, vibrated a little, and he searched for the tail lights with his knees, wiggling around—but the car took off at a rapid pace, accelerating sharply. His neck hurt, his shoulder hurt—thankfully, he was lying on his right one, but still, with the position his arms were tied in, his left shoulder still throbbed—his head hurt, and he knew it was the beginning of a headache— _he didn’t think he had a concussion, but they threw his head around quite a bit in the span of fewer than two minutes—_

And then the car must have gone off the road, because it wasn’t smooth, all bumpy—gravel, they turned down a gravel—they hit a curb, a large pothole, a rock, _something_ , he didn’t know what, but they hit something and his whole body felt weightless for half a second before his head hit something hard on the way back down— _his brain swam, like thick liquid, sloshing around inside his skull_ —and then there was another bump, a larger one if that was even possible, and his head exploded, fire tracked down his neck and spread through his shoulders and biceps before coming back and igniting his brain all over again in flames, in agony—

~

It was calm when he came back around— _he_ was calm. The world had stopped being so _noisy_. He couldn’t help that his first reaction was to open his eyes, and he blinked a few times to clear his vision. He was calm, slow, lifting his head from where it hung against his chest and taking in his surroundings.

Dark. The room was dark, with no windows. Grey rectangles all over the wall—cinderblocks, which probably meant that he was in a basement somewhere—and a large black—no, it might not be _black_ , it just looks black in the dark—a large _dark_ rectangle in the middle of the wall—a door, a large metal door, probably steel. He was _definitely_ underground. Faint light told him where the edges of the door were, almost as if the door didn’t quite fit where it had been placed, but the light was so faint, it didn’t help him see his room at all.

He groaned as he took in his own state. There was a chair beneath him, not cold, a little rickety, probably wooden. His arms were resting on the armrests— _right where they should be, and that was a little satisfying_ —and he wiggled his fingers, rubbing his fingertips against the edge—yes, it was wooden, felt a little damp, too, like this chair had been kept in a humid place before it was put to use. But wiggling his fingers traveled up to wiggling his wrist, and his heart rate increased. His brain cleared a little more, and his breathing stuttered momentarily as he realized that his wrists were tied down— _coarse rope wrapped around his arm and the armrest, the ends dangling below him._

Then his eyes widened and he squirmed in his seat when his feet wouldn’t do as they were told, either. His ankles were tied, too.

He stopped, took a breath, and collected himself. Panicking would do no good in this situation. He knew without a doubt this would be an interrogation— _captured immediately, with deliberate intent, and left tied up underground somewhere?_ Definitely to be interrogated.

Which meant that he needed to escape and get back to Jack before any— _Jack!_

 _Where was Jack? Had he been captured too?_ They had come at him so fast, he hadn’t had time to register anything besides his own situation and imminent peril.

So, step 1: escape his bonds and his room.

Step 2: locate and free Jack.

Step 3: get out of here.

How was he going to get out? He needed to free his hands before he could do anything. The rope was already fraying and didn’t look too thick, so he could probably saw through it easily enough. But where would he get a saw— _he could fashion one out of a button again—no, no that’d take too long and his hands weren’t in the right position, there was no way he could get a button—_ he twisted his wrists and it came to him. So simple, yet it’d work.

He twisted his right arm so that his wrist was palm-up, then slid his arm back as far as it would go, the rope rubbing against the skin yet also stretching— _because, hey, it was already fraying._ Twisting and turning his wrist, sliding his arm back and forth under the rope loosened it, and he was able to work his wrist free in under two minutes.

Untying the knot on the rope on his left wrist was difficult with only one hand and with no visual on the knot, so he held his left shoulder steady— _was it dislocated or bruised?—_ while he twisted and pulled his wrist loose. Took a bit longer, but he got it.

His ankles weren’t tied very tight at all and were quick to free.

He anticipated the dizziness of standing up, probably from dehydration, and so he held onto the back of the chair for support as he swayed and his vision cleared— _he was thirsty, very thirsty. How long had he been out?_

He stumbled over to the door as quietly as he could—he didn’t think he made any noise at all actually—and mentally prepared himself for what was on the other side. The door could open to a room full of armed guards playing poker. It could lead to a hallway full of other doors. There could be guards patrolling the building, right outside this door, or the door might squeak and alert the guards…

There were so many possibilities, he didn’t think he had the time to go through them all, so he just grasped the handle without a second thought and pulled.

Sure enough, as the door slowly swung inwards, it squealed on its hinges, and Mac stood there for one beat, two beats, three…

No guards came, no sound echoed through the hall. It was quiet. Not even the dripping of a leaky pipe was heard.

He stepped out into the hallway—a slightly brighter hallway than his room, yet there didn’t seem to be any light sources. They were probably around the corners that he could see, thanks to whatever light there _was_. He crept along, keeping to the wall as to avoid being seen—he wasn’t sure if there were any cameras or not, it was too dark in the upper corners to tell. There were, in fact, other doorways and rooms, but all the doors were open with nobody inside.

He doubted Jack was here with him at all, because if he was, Mac definitely would have heard him, heard something, _snoring at least_ , but there was nothing. Perhaps only Mac had been grabbed, only Mac had been wanted, only Mac _had_ what these men wanted— _what_ did _they want? Who even were these guys—_ then it dawned on him. This was probably S-Company. If Sylvia was captured, she may have given up intel that gave S-Company a way into the CIA, so maybe they’d planted a mole.

It made sense. The CIA humiliated them with their mole, Ethan, so naturally, S-Company would want revenge, would want to humiliate the CIA right back. But then how did they know where he and Jack were going?—Mac ducked his head around the corner, and there, at the end, was a simple door, different from the rest so it might lead to freedom—S-Company had obviously arrived before them, and set up a strategy, but not even Matty knew where he and Jack would go. S-Company must have _active_ intel _on the Phoenix itself._

The hallway was short, with more empty rooms, but he just bypassed them all, knowing beforehand that they’d be empty— _and he was right, but still, where was Jack?—_ and coming to a slow, silent stop at the door. He pressed his ear to the door, yet heard nothing, no movement whatsoever on the other side, so he reached for the knob, turning it as quietly as he could and easing the door open slowly so as to diminish whatever noise the hinges would make.

None, it seemed. Judging from the state of the wood and the rust on the hinges, this door wasn’t new, so then these people must oil it so that it wouldn’t—the door suddenly slammed wide open, right into him and knocking him to the ground in surprise. Luckily, he was able to catch himself, but his already aching shoulder didn’t appreciate that—he didn’t even have a chance to begin picking himself up before a boot impacted his ribcage— _he didn’t even see who it was_ —he coughed out a lung’s fill of air before sucking it back in—then he was grabbed, fists full of his button-up right above his clavicle—he was in his right mind, not dazed or hazy anymore and his eyes were adjusting to the light from the doorway fairly quickly— _adrenaline will do that to you—_ so he responded by swinging his legs around and sweeping the guy onto the floor and jumping to his feet.

That man hit hard, but yelled something up the stairs— _stairs, there were stairs behind that door, leading up, and now there were more people coming down—_ cover blown, he turned and ran down the hallway, away from the footsteps he could hear chasing him. He had to come up with something, _anything_ to knock these guys out. The thing was, though, there was nothing. Nothing inside the rooms—all empty, empty, _empty_ except for his chair and rope, and it was too late to turn around and get it, he’d already run past—he just had to keep going and think of something. There were no light fixtures on the walls, so when he turned the corner into a completely dark hallway, he kept his right hand against the—

He smacked into something solid, something unforgiving, something in the middle of the hallway that he couldn’t see— _it was a person—_ it was a person that snatched a handful of his hair before he could hit the ground— _how could this brute of a man see where Mac was—_ and began dragging him back the way he’d come.

He bit off his short scream, clenching his teeth, and grabbed at the man’s steady hold with a death grip from both of his own hands—ow, ow, _ow on his scalp, his hair, pulling tight—_ so as to lessen the pain and pull, all the while trying to get his legs under him, scrabbling at the ground with his feet—the man was walking too fast, pulling to hard—he grunted, groaned long and low through his clenched teeth—and Mac felt tears from the pain well up.

His eyes adjusted to the lesser darkness again— _where was that light even coming from, so dim and unnatural—_ and his hair was released, dropping him onto the cold concrete of his cell. He didn’t have time to make much of any sort of move to attack—propped himself up onto his knees before attempting to launch at his captor—but he was grabbed by men on both arms and manhandled back into that wooden chair.

He stopped struggling. Outnumbered as he was, escape was impossible.

The ropes were tied anew and he received a blow to his face, his left cheekbone, busting his lip on his teeth— _he let the blood well up inside his mouth so that he could spit it on someone soon—_ and then that big brute of a man stood in front of him. He said something, Mac didn’t catch it, having no idea whatsoever what was said. It sounded like a question, and given how quiet it was down there, he shouldn’t be having any hearing problems— _no ringing, no static, no auditory delay, he must be speaking another language entirely—_ of _course_ he was speaking another language, _duh_. They were in Cyprus.

Why hadn’t that been his first thought?

The man asked again, and in the time allotted, Mac thought carefully. If he responded in English, the men would know that he didn’t speak Greek. Would they stop their interrogation, realizing that it was useless? Or would they get more frustrated, figuring him to be a liar or con artist, and up their ante? Would they believe him and get a translator?

If they got a translator, then Mac would know what questions were being asked, and he’d know what they wanted. So then, when he escaped or was rescued (whichever came first) he could report to Phoenix and the CIA what S-Company was looking for. But if they planned to torture him, he’d know what to say to end the pain. But that also depended on how long it took to either escape or be rescued.

His friends all knew that he couldn’t lie or keep a secret, and he knew that he didn’t really handle pain well— _well_ , he had a _tolerance_ , it just wasn’t up to Jack’s level or covert-operative-that-might-be-tortured-for-information level. So, what if they tortured him, and he gave in, all because he queued them into the fact that he didn’t speak their language?

So, all in all, there was a higher probability of a positive outcome for him if he kept silent (ignoring the higher probability for torture, as well).

Mac resolved himself to say nothing, give nothing away, stare these men down, and—light sprang forth from behind the men, coming from the hallway in through his doorway, and he could see them better. Not a few seconds later, a man came in— _four, that made four men—_ a man came in carrying a mechanical lantern in one hand and a gas one in—his head whipped to the side as he was punched in his face again—his face was beginning to throb in tandem with his cheek and teeth and he was getting _really tired_ of being punched in the face.

_Was punching him in the face the only scare tactic these guys knew?_

The man restated whatever he had said before, and Mac just looked at him, observing, watching, staring him down with defiance written clearly across his face. The man seemed calm, stern, patient, and intimidating. He was big, burly, and had tattoos, two, each the same and each across his biceps, one on each arm— _Japanese, not Chinese, because it was Hiragana_ —he crossed his arms and shifted, widening his stance to be slightly closer to Mac’s still form, defenseless in the old rickety chair— _oh so defenseless_ —and the man looked like he was ready to start pounding away— _oh man, Jack, where were you? If Jack wasn’t here, then maybe he was out looking for Mac? Please don’t let those guys have killed him. Please don’t be dead please don’t be—_

Another man entered the room, something in his hand—the light wasn’t enough, wasn’t bright enough, he couldn’t see—then it was— _he got closer—_ then it was, then the light shined off of something metal, something with a handle—a hammer— _what were they gonna do with a hammer—_ restraining him wasn’t enough, they were going to make sure he couldn’t escape, weren’t they?— _they’d most likely go for the legs, and with a blunt force trauma sort of injury to his extremities, there’d be little to no lethal damage_ —it’d hurt, but he wouldn’t die from it, and he couldn’t escape with it either.

The men were talking, discussing, shooting occasional glances his way, while he just sat there, unmoving, not struggling, heart beating fast with apprehension—he was afraid, trying to keep his breathing focused and steady, afraid of what those men were going to do, afraid of the damage that would be inflicted, scared of how he’d react—what he’d _feel—if they hurt him bad enough, he wouldn’t be able to escape_ —but then again, if they didn’t hurt him much, he might still be able to manage it. So hopefully, they’d go easy— _they probably won’t—_ but what if they had pity or mercy or— _but what if he_ convinced _them to?_

What if he acted like he was hurt more than he actually was so that they wouldn’t damage him enough to hinder an escape? After all, with him still wearing his pants—and they didn’t seem to need to take his clothes from him—whatever damage they did would be gauged on his reaction— _so if he over-exaggerated his reaction, then they’d interpret the evidence incorrectly_ , _and—_

The talking stopped, and the goon with the hammer approached, determination in his eyes with no hint of hesitation or—the hammer went up—he inhaled with wide eyes—above Mac’s head, above that man’s head, out of the light— _something was blocking the light from_ —and then it came down, and he didn’t feel the pain at first, was just in a state of shock from the sudden motion, staring at his knee, at where the hammer hit right behind his patella, where he could feel the swelling already, feel the burst blood vessels, feel the _pain_ —but before he could so much as gasp, before his mind could keep up with that plan he’d thought about—the hammer came down again, this time grazing the side of his knee and skimming off—he had the mind to scream this time—not only because of the plan, but pain was the larger incentive.

And then it came down a third time, interrupting him and hitting square and true, the center of the kneecap itself, sending bright white bursting through his vision, and his scream stuttered before restarting and tapering off with a faint whimper. He sucked in a quick breath and held it, trying to compose himself.

_God, it hurt._

The hammer went away, but the pain didn’t, throbbing deep and dull, but not sharp like a broken bone, so he knew it wasn’t as bad as it felt—but still, he grit his teeth, closed his eyes, and regulated his breathing so that he wouldn’t scream again— _but the plan!_

He howled low through clenched teeth—releasing the pain he already felt and driving home to these terrorists that he was a lot more injured than what he probably was—at least, he hoped that’s what it did. And he hoped he wasn’t as injured as he felt.

He took a moment to compose himself, relishing in the still moment of silence and inaction from his captors— _silence_?

He opened his eyes and looked up—the men were gone.

The light was still there, and he could see the room better without the men blocking the light, but the men were gone. He hadn’t heard them leave.

But the men were gone, so he could relax a little and breathe easier and think of a way out.

Assessing the situation revealed that 1) the ropes were wrapped exactly the same as before, 2) a bit farther up his arm than before, and 3) his ankles weren’t tied at all.

So really, all he had to do was slide his arms back, and the smaller circumference of his wrists versus higher up on his forearm would allow him to slip right out—easier than rubbing his arms red, as he’d done before.

But once he escaped, where would he go? Every turn he’d come upon in this maze of a building had goons lurking in wait— _but that staircase_! That staircase most likely promised freedom, so that would need to be the primary goal. Sneak up the staircase to figure out—the door of his cell squeaked open and the same men from before came back.

They hadn’t been gone for two minutes!

They must’ve been discussing something as a group right outside—did they think he spoke their language? Did that mean they were planning something specific, something with a _plan_?

Before the door shut, the big goon turned and said something to one of the others, his tone sharp and piercing, like that poor guy was getting in trouble or something. The smaller man quickly left, shutting the door behind him, and Mac refocused his attention on the main guy with the tattoos— _why was he the only one with tattoos? Did that mean—_ the man crouched to eye level with Mac and began speaking in a tone that sounded very threatening, if only Mac understood what was being threatened.

He settled a bored expression on his face, trying to put up the standard _I’ll give you Nothing_ look the heroes in the movies always wore.

They stared each other down, Mac refusing to show fear, and the tattoo man smiling, before striking Mac across the face with the back of his hand. His head whipped to the side and collided with the back of the chair—then the pull on his scalp was back, his head being forced around to face the man again.

The stare down continued. Mac glared. The man opened his mouth to speak, but Mac ignored him completely—it wasn’t like he was going to understand what he was saying. This particular goon seemed to be the one in charge, the others waiting in the background and not interacting with—his vision blurred as his head shook—the tattoo man was shaking his head for him, shaking his hair, pulling his attention back to glaring, back to ignoring.

He rolled his eyes and shifted to a bored expression. He didn’t speak Greek, he didn’t speak Greek, _he didn’t speak Greek_. Why did these guys think he spoke Greek? Sure, he knew the alphabet like the back of his hand—he knew that certain English words were derived from Greek words. Maybe he could piece together—a fist rammed into his nose and pushed his head back against the hand still holding his hair—he felt a few strands snap—he felt the cartilage bend and the bone snap and then there was blood dripping—

Then he was struck in his side, and his ribs bent, and the air left his lungs—another strike in the same place and pain flared through his nerves—then a sharp pain in his face, his head snapped back into the chair and bounced off—and his hair was yanked up. His vision was blurry, his lungs weren’t breathing yet, and there was a faint ringing coming from somewhere—coming from in front of him, coming from the man.

He blinked and squinted and blinked again, tears unbidden cleansed his sight and the man was in focus, his mouth moving and the ringing coming from—the ringing lowered its pitch, lowered to a—it was the man’s voice, talking to him again— _questioning him_?

He took the reprieve to breathe, to calm his heart rate, to sit still and catalog his injuries—his arms burned from where he’d pulled against the ropes—that’s not something he’d noticed before—his side hurt, probably fractured a rib or two, but it wasn’t sharp like a broken bone, so another—his hair was thrust backward, slamming his head into the back of the chair again, and spots burst in his vision— _it was the occipital lobe, his eyes were malfunctioning because his occipital lobe was—_ then he was yanked forward, farther than before, pulling at his binds, and the man was speaking again, his face inches from Mac’s and spit landed on his cheek.

His eyesight still wasn’t up to par, but even through impaired vision Mac knew that this guy was close to losing it—he was getting angrier and angrier the longer Mac stayed silent— _and that’s all he had to do, stay silent, don’t give away that he didn’t speak Greek or they’ll off him—_ and Mac’s heart rate gave away his fear. He couldn’t calculate the probability of the man’s actions, there were too many unknown variables, but what it boiled down to was either death or torture.

The man’s body language betrayed his mental state, screaming to Mac that he was a loose cannon about to explode. He was a perfect example of the second law of thermodynamics— _entropy: everything will decline into a state of chaos—_ and this man was a perfectly isolated system _—unless Mac were to act upon it_ —change the man’s course of action, slow his decent and stave off the time of his torture. He just had to buy time for Jack to find him— _if Jack was looking, if Jack wasn’t dead—he wasn’t dead._ Jack wasn’t dead _—_ He _wasn’t_.

At least this time, Mac’s thoughts were complete in his mind before tattoo guy shoved his head backward again, banging and bouncing off the back. His hair was released, but his head spun to the side as something impacted his left cheekbone—his mind reeled, and his cheek felt crushed, tears gathered in his eyes from the impact having been so close. He was pretty sure his cheek was bleeding, but he couldn’t—

Blows rained upon his torso, both sides of his ribs—stealing his mind and capturing his thoughts in a loop— _Jack always saved him from horrible torture, horrible beatings, where was Jack—_ and those ribs screamed that something was wrong, something was spiky, something was sharp and sending stabbing pain through every breath, every thought—it stopped, the primitive torture stopped, and his damned hair was grabbed again— _he vowed to himself that he’d cut it shorter when Jack rescued him—_ tattoo man crouched down to eye level again, and through his voice Mac knew he was seething from the inside out.

The man shook Mac’s head again, still snarling and spitting in Mac’s face—it hurt, his brain rattled in his skull, his hair pulled painfully against his scalp, pulling at the bruises he could feel forming, and he could feel something running down his cheek— _blood, he had blood running down his cheek_ —but the swaying of his whole face had the blood going every-which-way, had his eyes rolling in their sockets, had his ears starting to ring— _the man was just not stopping, and Mac didn’t even know how to describe how strange it felt_ —for his equilibrium to be so thrown off he didn’t even realize it had stopped until the man backhanded him, his cheek ripping open more and his head hitting the chair again—

Must’ve hit good, because he didn’t even feel it before he was unconscious.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is where it gets graphic, and I mean... really graphic. 
> 
> I don't normally like reading paragraphs about pain, preferring to leave that to my imagination, but the narrative is at a place where the reader goes through what Mac goes through, and I'd have to completely rethink the way I've written the narrative to avoid all the paragraphs. Hopefully, they're not as clunky as I'm afraid they are.
> 
> Another thing about the graphic-ness: In all my years as a whumper, and there's over a decade, I haven't come across this particular injury, and it's brutal. It's not run-of-the-mill fists or knives. It's worse, and awful, and horrible.
> 
> If you decide you can't handle it, don't read it. I'm begging you. Don't put yourself through it if you don't think you can handle it.
> 
> Then again, this story was inspired primarily from the desire to whump Mac something good, and that is exactly what this story does, sacrificing plot for angst.
> 
> Sorry for the long Author's note. Go on, read.

Consciousness came slowly. Then awareness.

Mac felt like one big bruise, all over. He deliberately held still as he took in his cell, not wanting to alert a potential guard that he was back. He hadn’t even opened his eyes, but he could still hear— _hear what?_ It was completely quiet.

He heard his breathing, loud and clear, which meant that if there _was_ someone else in the room with him, he’d hear them.

Nothing. It was all clear.

He opened his eyes and saw exactly what he expected to see—nothing. The men had removed the light source, too, leaving him in a windowless cell of cinderblock walls. At least, he was pretty sure he was still in the same cell. He shifted his hips a little, rocking the legs of the chair, producing the creak he was waiting for. The same creak his previous chair had made.

Yeah, he was in the same room.

What would even be the advantage of moving him? It wasn’t like they were— _tap, thud, tap, swish—_ noise outside his door, some unknown distance away—footsteps, faint yet audible in this situation. The men were coming back— or was it _one_ man? The footsteps weren’t _that_ decipherable yet, still too far away.

Mac’s eyes were adjusting to this particular level of darkness, and he could make out the bindings on his arms and the frame of the door in front of him, just like when he awoke before.

The ropes on his arms felt tighter than before, but they were also higher up on his forearm rather than only around his wrist, so he could— _wait_. He remembered observing this before, when the men were actively tying him up.

It was… strange that he’d temporarily forgotten that, considering that it was an important piece of knowledge that directly pertained to his immediate circumstance. Perhaps all the jostling his brain had gone through messed some things up.

How long had he been out? How long had he been here? How long had he been _missing_?

A shiver ran down his spine as he realized that he didn’t know, didn’t have a _clue_. He might’ve been in that vehicle for an hour or _twelve_ , he didn’t know. He could have been unconscious for an entire _day_. Who knew? He didn’t, and it frightened him.

He had to get out immediately, get back to Jack and get home to—no. No, the mission. He couldn’t forget the mission.

He had to escape his cell and find Sylvia Gar—the footsteps were close now, right outside his door, very noisy against the empty air, many footsteps, multiple people.

They were going to come in and begin round two, looking for information that Mac had no idea about, and he wasn’t ready for that. It wasn’t necessarily the pain of torture he was apprehensive about but that he hadn’t had adequate time to come up with a plan— _of what, escape?_ He hadn’t had time to think of what he needed a plan for. Escape was one of them, and he knew he’d use the foolish bindings on his arms for it, but an escape plan needs more than just that.

The footsteps stopped and he could hear tinkering, could hear the metal-on-metal of what was likely a key in a keyhole. They’d probably locked the door because of his easy escape before, so he’d need to add _picking the lock_ to his scrap of a plan—there was a faint click, and the footsteps shuffled, the door squeaked, and he wasn’t ready—

So he panicked, he did the only thing he could think to try to delay the inevitable, he played dead—or at least, asleep. He stilled his movements, relaxed his muscles, and hung his head, remembering to even out his breathing as the door fully opened and the men stepped inside.

He waited.

He could hear several footsteps cease, likely standing still, but one pair approached. There was murmuring near the door, the shuffling of cloth against cloth, and a voice startled him, right in front of him.

He still didn’t know what was being said, but he was proud of himself for not flinching, for keeping his eyelids from twitching, from staying as calm as he was.

The voice repeated itself louder, more forcefully, and fingers touched his neck, seeking a pulse. Mac desperately hoped this man didn’t know what different heart rhythms meant, otherwise he was screwed. If this man could tell that his heartbeat was too rapid for someone who was supposed to be asleep, then he’d know Mac was faking it.

The fingers stayed longer than Mac was comfortable with, and his heart rate may have sped up, he didn’t know, he wasn’t paying attention. He was trying to stay calm and quiet.

The fingers left, the man left, and the door closed behind them. Footsteps echoed down the hall, but Mac held still a bit longer, waiting for _all_ the noise to die down.

He could hear breathing, but it was _only_ his breathing, so he relaxed, exhaled easily, and smiled, ready to escape.

Whoever tied these ropes didn’t spare a thought about how he was able to escape them the first time without cutting or breaking them, so he just slid his arms back, his elbows off to the side and his wrists caught a tiny bit, but it took minimal tugging to free them.

This escape was easier than his first!

He stood up slowly, testing his knee. There was a dull throb, but nothing more. Probably just badly bruised. He could walk on it without too much difficulty and that was all that mattered.

He approached the door with worry. It’d probably be locked since they had to unlock it to open it just now. How was he going to unlock it?

It was too dark to see the lock or keyhole, and it was too dark to see anything that might be of use in his cell— _the door creaked open._ He gently tugged on the handle again and it opened more— _those_ _goons_ _neither_ _locked_ _his_ _cell_ _door_ _nor_ _closed_ _it_ _all_ _the_ _way_ —and he tiptoed out into the hallway.

He briefly thought about taking his shoes off to decrease the sound of his footsteps, but the probability of stepping on something and injuring himself while barefoot was higher than the amount of decibels that would decrease from the lesser friction, so it just wasn’t worth it.

The door at the end of the hallway which the ascending staircase hid behind was closed, but light was filtering through the creases just like before, and just like before, he pressed his ear to the door and listened, this time for longer, and this time holding his breath.

Nothing, but there was also nothing last time, too, and the door knocked him down, so he stepped to the side, hand on the knob, twisted slowly and gently pulled the door open with just the right amount of force so that the door stopped before hitting the wall.

He waited, flush against the wall, listening.

Still nothing, so he stuck his head around to check it out.

Again, nothing, but the stairs were lit by a single bulb hanging in the middle of the stairwell, and at the top was yet another closed door.

He stayed close to the walls, stepping as close as he could to avoid any creaking, and succeeded, made it to the top smoothly, and he observed this new door. The hinges were on his side, on the right with the knob on the left, which meant that the door swung inwards, towards him, so he’d need to be careful or he’d likely push himself down the stairs on accident.

This is when Jack would have made a joke or _actually_ fallen for Mac to have had to catch him, but Jack wasn’t here, probably wasn’t even in this building. Hopefully, they left him alive to come rescue Mac, because even if he got out of here, how was he going to get back home without someone to guide him? He had no cell phone, no map, no idea where he was, so even if he got out of here, he’d easily get taken again because he’d be lost.

But don’t think about that. Think about escape.

There was no landing before the door, so Mac had to stand on the third stair down to open it without getting hit. It must’ve been well oiled as well, swung open without a sound, and Mac pressed himself against the wall again, trying his best to keep himself from sight, listening.

He heard a low humming, almost a _buzzing_ but not quite. He recognized the sound, some sort of coolant system, but heard nothing else, nothing significant, like a person walking or anything, so he peaked out.

It was a kitchen. A large kitchen.

Faint moonlight shone through the skylight, reflecting off the vast amount of sterling silver, almost like—wait, _moonlight_. It was dark, it was night, it meant that he’d been gone several hours. He and Jack had rolled up to the “safe” house around 10 in the morning, and the winter sun has been setting around 5:30 recently. For it to be this dark, it had to be after 7:00, so at least ten hours must have passed by now.

The team was looking. Of course they were. But was Jack with them?

Mac had no time to distract himself—he could think about all this _after_ he got out of here—but as for now, the traffic door to the right was slowly moving, barely oscillating on its hinges, coming to a stop as if someone passed on the other side.

Mac’s eyes widened and he dropped down, keeping—sharp stabbing pain pierced his knee and all other thoughts left as he dropped further, laying on his side, clenching his teeth to stop from screaming. He had forgotten about his knee. Stretched out and walking on it had felt fine, but bending it at all set ablaze the fire of the deep bruise. He gripped the middle of his thigh, not on his knee but he needed to grip _something_.

He breathed deliberately and shallowly in through his nose, holding it before releasing it again, getting himself back under control, and he opened his eyes, not realizing that he’d closed them. The pain was abetting and he stretched his leg out to test it.

It was fine.

It _would be_ fine; he needed to escape more than he needed to worry about the injury.

With his leg out straight, he sat up and twisted, hiding near some pots and pans that he needed to watch out for lest he knock them over and alert everyone in this building that he was escaping again; he reached up and latched onto the counter above him, gripping tight and leaning out to see what he could see through the circular window in the door.

Nothing, he could see nothing.

He should have seen that coming…

He still heard nothing, so he crept closer, still crouched, still awkward with his leg, and gently pushed the door open, peaking out.

There was a person down the hall, a person with a gun, walking slowly and looking down various hallways— _that_ _was_ _a_ _guard_. This place is secretive enough to have oiled all the hinges on their doors to eliminate noise _and_ they have a guard on lookout.

There was no doubt in his mind that this was S-Company.

The guard wasn’t yet at the end, still had a little bit farther to go, so if Mac could be perfectly stealthy, he could sneak out and across the hall through the opposite door and out of sight. From there, he could find a window to hop out of, or— _squish_ — _octopus_ —there was a noise like the suction of an octopus from behind him, and he spun, surprised—his knee bent and stabbed him, but he couldn’t focus on that—there was a man, hunched over a gun— _Mac couldn’t tell what kind, there wasn’t light enough—_

The man, having lost the element of surprise, straightened and yelled, “ _Stamatísei_!”

Mac didn’t know what that meant, but he knew that other people here would and they would come running, which meant that he needed to get out of there _fast_.

He swiveled and pushed through the door, only to come to an immediate stop.

There were two more people closing in on him, leaving him with nowhere to go and no other option but to stand and fight.

Too bad he was never all that good at hand to hand fighting, and too bad he was outnumbered three to one.

He didn’t even have a chance to throw a punch before something large and heavy and hard impacted his upper back, slamming into his already hurt shoulder and sending him forward into the grasp of the two goons waiting for him. They weren’t able to successfully catch him, though they did slow his fall, grabbing at his arms before they slipped out of their grasp. He wasn’t able to stop his fall himself so his nose and forehead bounced off the tile, sending a bright burst of white through his vision.

He was momentarily disoriented, but he wouldn’t have fought back if he could’ve. Three on one is unfair, and there would be no way for him to get out of this situation.

The henchmen waited no time, kicking him while he was down and trying their best to incapacitate him. If these were the guys in charge of keeping him locked up, he could understand that they’d be angry. He did pretty much humiliate them again, escaping for the second time and getting farther than he did the last attempt.

There were kicks to his ribs, kicks to his legs, someone stomped on his back, and Mac tried his best to curl up, to wrap his arms around his head to protect himself. There was a perfectly well-aimed kick to his shoulder that had him biting his lip against a scream and squeezing his eyes closed to try to deal with all the pain—but then there was a brutal stomp on his outstretched leg, right on his ankle, and his foot twisted—then again, and burning red was all he could see behind closed eyelids, burning red as his ankle broke and he gasped in a scream.

Teeth clenched, he fought back the waves of pain determined to make him scream again, and his arms were grasped and lifted— _his feet slid across the floor_ —the goons began dragging him back the way he’d come, and he knew fighting was pointless, that struggling would get him nowhere, but he had to _try_ , didn’t he!?

He wasn’t being dragged forward—he was being dragged backward, so his feet scrambled—his _foot_ scrambled, because he really didn’t want to move the throbbing one too much—across the floor to get some sort of purchase before the ground moved too much— _and he did, it did_ —his foot found enough friction to stop sliding and he tried to launch himself up and out of the grasp of these madmen, and he succeeded, his arms straining against their hold— _then he couldn’t breathe_ —he fell back and their arms stopped him from collapsing to the ground—and there was pain in his stomach, in his ribs— _he’d been punched in the gut_ hard—he’d failed to include the third henchman in his calculations.

He wanted to try again, escape before they threw him in that small cell again—but they descended the stairs, he could feel it in the angles at which the men were carrying him. He had enough time to see it coming, but not enough time to react—his feet dropped off the landing and onto the top stair, and then onto the next, and the next—his ankle felt like it was going to break off completely, like he _wanted_ it to break off completely, engulfed in fire—he clenched his teeth again, squeezed his eyes shut, determined to _not_ scream.

The stairs released him onto even ground, his feet sliding again. The pain abated significantly, yet it was distracting enough that he didn’t try again, didn’t think about it again, until it was too late— _too late to do anything_ —he twisted his head up to see around his shoulder—his cell door was coming into view, and dread dropped like a lead weight into his stomach— _if his cell door approached, the torture would too_. What if that had been his only chance to escape, and he blew it?

Surely, now that he’d escaped a second time, they’d rethink their restraints, their methods of keeping him still. _What would they do?_ Would they stick with their rope or would they upgrade to more inhumane methods, like fishing line or barbed wire?

The men stopped and Mac’s breathing shuddered as he was hoisted up and thrown into the chair—creaking accompanied the motion— _it sounded like it could give soon—_ maybe he could use that weakness to escape— _maybe he could—_ his breathing sped up as all three of the henchmen surrounded him— _maybe he could break the chair somehow—_

—But then two goons were holding his arms down, holding his wrists down, his palms up— _if his palms were up, then he wouldn’t be able to grasp anything, to scratch at the rope, the wire, if his palms were up, he wouldn’t be able to escape as easily—_ and another goon was securing his legs to the chair’s legs, not being careful of the ankle that very same man broke, and Mac grit his teeth to stop from crying out, hung his head and squeezed his eyes closed until the pain dissipated, sucking in a breath between his teeth.

He stopped struggling—what even was the point if they were all in the room with him now? If he struggled and managed to escape, he’d be outnumbered and forced back in the same chair, with the same restraints as last time, too—legs tied to the chair, wrists—but his wrists weren’t tied to the chair, they weren’t tied at all, the goons were still holding them down. He raised his head and opened his eyes.

The man with the Japanese tattoo stood by the door, arms crossed and watching. The one who tied his feet up was gone, and there was a new man, to the left, fiddling with some sort of power tool—he couldn’t tell, couldn’t completely see it, but any sort of power tool was frightening in this sort of context.

A shiver ran down Mac’s spine, and he swallowed the little saliva he had in his mouth— _boy he was thirsty, did they ever feed their captives at all—_ because they had a power tool, and his wrists weren’t being tied down—maybe they just ran out of rope—and they were probably tired of his escaping the bonds and were looking to make his acquaintance with the chair permanent.

Mac would bet that it was a power drill, and the box at the guy’s feet? Those were screws.

He could feel his breathing speed up without his control—he was terrified, he knew it, he was man enough to admit that to himself— _they were going to screw his hands to the chair, and oh dear god they were going to drill_ through _his hands and that was going to_ hurt _—_ he had to find a way out, _any_ way out, that’s what he did—that’s what he was good at, so why couldn’t he think of anything—nothing was coming together, no ideas formed themselves—this was when Jack would come in and save him, save him from these men that wanted answers that he didn’t have—he _didn’t_ —he didn’t even speak their language, and they didn’t seem to notice, to _care_ —

But then the man came closer, the power drill came closer—already on, portable battery, and the man was pumping it on and off, on and off, intending to scare the victim—and it was working. The closer it got, the more Mac sweat, the more he shook, and he didn’t care if he never actually escaped, he struggled, he yanked at his arms, he _could not let that drill_ —but his arms weren’t budging, the men’s grips steadfast, and the drill was inches away, so he closed his fists to deny access—

But the drill wasn’t going for his hands, it was going for his wrists.

At first, Mac didn’t feel anything, just clamped his eyes shut to block out the blood that splattered everywhere—he couldn’t block the noise, though, that noise, the sound of flesh twisting, ripping, of liquids being pureed—it sounded like a _blender_ —but then the pain registered, white and red at the same time, the world was on fire, tilting, _wrenching, searing pain radiated up and down and left and right and east and south—_ it was everywhere, and it was only in one arm—felt like the arm was being torn off over and over again, someone had a red-hot knife and was stabbing him with it over and over,hot and burning, way too much heat—it was only in his arm but no that was wrong because it was everywhere—he could feel the agony in his fingers in his toes in his ears—

He hadn’t realized he’d left the world behind until it slowly faded back in. His heart was beating too loud, his wails were echoing back at him, the chair creaked and creaked and squeaked beneath his writhing form. The pain was slowly dying to a throbbing pulse that flayed him alive with every beat of his heart, and he could feel other things beside it. There were tears in his eyes, there was blood on his face, there was blood on his neck, on his shirt, on his arm— _oh god there was so much blood all over his arm_ —

He’d _barely_ started breathing properly again, had only been able to gulp down two breaths before the same searing agony engulfed his other arm. Bones shifted and broke, tendons snapped, nerves were sliced. He screamed his throat raw, his tears fell, and more blood splattered onto his face.

He came back to himself in time to see somebody connect the screw to something and it started glowing, lit up red-hot, and the burning was back, burning his wound closed, melting his flesh onto the foreign object penetrating his arm— _cauterizing so that he didn’t bleed out,_ smart _—_ his throat hurt, too, hurt from the screaming, and he was wheezing and sobbing this time, sobbing through the snot running into his mouth from his slack jaw and the tears streaking through the blood on his cheeks.

He couldn’t breathe, he needed to stop screaming and _inhale_ and breathe, but it was hard, the pain demanded his attention, and the only attention he could give it was his voice, and he gasped, and sobbed, and wheezed in the air he needed. He tasted pennies and salt and he saw grey walls, and red spots on the walls, and black boots, and red spots on the black boots and his head felt good there, his neck relaxed and—

That was blood on the floor by the boots—his boots—he saw, it was dripping from above them, dripping from the arm of the chair, but it was so mesmerizing— _drip, drip, drip—_ and there was another noise, one that changed, moved, floated in the air around him—speech. That’s what it was, someone was speaking, and he tried to focus on it, but he couldn’t understand what—

He remembered.

He remembered, he didn’t speak their language, didn’t speak Greek, and they didn’t speak his.

He wanted to shake his head, to clear his thoughts but his shoulder still hurt from his kidnapping—he remembered everything again, and he knew that he wouldn’t be escaping any time soon, or maybe, ever again. Now, he needed these men to let him go free so he could meet back up with—

A fist came out of nowhere and punched him in his face, and he realized that these men hadn’t realized that he didn’t know what they were saying. Did they still not know that he had no idea what they were trying to say to him? When were they going to get a translator? Or better yet, give up?

His jaw was still slack, hanging open as he slowed his breathing, and a large hand gripped it tight, twisted his head around and up so that he’s looking right at a face—the man with the Japanese tattoo on his neck—Mac wished he spoke Japanese so that he could translate that, perhaps it would give insight into this man’s character or even what he wants—but even if he spoke it, he wouldn’t necessarily know how to _read_ it, so Mac figured he’d need to learn to read the symbols first—but that wouldn’t do any good if he couldn’t translate it—

Another fist socked him in the jaw, wrecking his train of thought, and then that jaw was grabbed again— _his_ jaw was grabbed again—and the same Japanese man—was the _man_ Japanese or was it just his tattoo—the Japanese man slapped him, with his hand instead of his fist, and Mac didn’t know how to register just how grateful he was that the man hadn’t _punched_ him again—

The man let go and his head fell, and Mac forgot to catch it before it hit his chest, pulling his neck painfully—but the pain was so little compared to the rest of his pain that he didn’t even notice it really, just a little bit and only at first—

~

And then he was opening his eyes and lifting his head, and his neck ached like he’d slept in the wrong position. The other pains were dull, still there and pulsing with every beat of his heart, but only just _dull_. The men were gone, and it was completely quiet—they had left the kerosene lamp, though, so it wasn’t completely dark.

He must’ve passed out.

Despair wrapped itself around his mind.

Everybody always praised him on his genius, on his intellect, the way he’s able to think so quickly during tense and stressful situations, situations like the one he was in right now, but it wasn’t his mind he prized the most. No, his mind could think itself in circles all it wanted, but without his hands to mold his ideas into art, he was more useless than a dung beetle—at least dung beetles could make people flinch and cower if you threw one at somebody. Mac could do absolutely nothing without his hands, and the hope he had sunk into despair.

His muscles ached, his legs needed to stretch, his forearms burned from holding his upturned wrists in such an unnatural position—he tried to skim over the pulsating agony in his wrists at that, but they demanded attention which he could not give them. Every beat of his heart screamed at him that something was _wrong_ with his arms, with his wrists, and he knew what was wrong, but _he could do nothing about it_ —he just slumped in his chair, grit his teeth, and tried not to irritate the wounds any further.

In scrunching his face from the slight movement, he realized that there was something dried on his face, something pulling, all over, on his forehead, his chin, his cheeks— _especially_ his cheeks. It took another second for his spotty memory to fill in the blanks, that it was blood splatter and tears mixed on his cheeks.

He flinched, which irritated his dislocated shoulder that he forgot about. Honestly, it wasn’t so bad—he turned his head to attempt to look at it, but it pulled at the dried blood on his neck and it _itched_.

It itched all over.

And he couldn’t even see his shoulder, his shirt was in the way, so he slowly hung his head and closed his eyes, resting for as long as those men would allow, and maybe even thinking up an escape plan— _he didn’t want to think up an escape plan, didn’t want to think anymore_ , cause the more he sat there and thought, the more hopelessness shook him, and he was _scared_. He didn’t want to think about that, but he was. He was terrified senseless.

He didn’t want to think up an escape plan because he was afraid that his terror would mess it up, that his intellect wouldn’t be able to successfully make something out of the nothing he was given. What if he failed? He’d failed before, but not like this. This time was different. If he failed, if he tried and _couldn’t_ , then he was truly hopeless. There’d be nothing worth saving about him.

And he wanted to be saved. He had that hope, the foolish hope that somehow this would end—be it because he escaped or because Jack came for him or because he gave these men what they wanted and they let him go—he still had hope—but if he tried and failed, then there’d be nothing redeeming about him—and aside from not being able to escape on his own, Jack would have no reason to come for him, and he’d clearly never be able to give these men what they want, so he’d be left here to rot.

Trying would inevitably end in failure, and he wasn’t ready to give up his hope yet.

He didn’t have to, because the door squealed on its hinges as it slowly opened—he jerked his head up, alert, watching, wary—and a man walked backward in, pulling a squeaky cart in after him— _he couldn’t see exactly what was on the cart, the man blocked his view, the lamp not bright enough, but he knew it was mechanical, electrical, some sort of equipment—_ and his already cold body ran colder, his breathing sped up. He wasn’t ready to be hurt, to be tortured, he wasn’t ready to be reduced to a victim—not like he had any choice in the matter—his body reminded of that him when he tried to squirm away from the approaching cart and his arms flared, but he just grit his teeth harder.

The cart stopped over to his right—the squeaking stopped over to his right—more people came in and his attention was drawn to them, the Japanese man stopped and stood in front of him, saying something— _he still didn’t understand, he still didn’t_ know—and laughed, gesturing towards Mac but looking at his men— _something was funny, what did he do, what was—_ the man, still laughing with his buddies, gestured to his face, to Mac’s face—and suddenly Mac was very aware of the blood that was there, of the tear tracks, of the minute shaking that was racking his entire frame— _he was ashamed, now, of how easily he had broken before, had just started shrieking and crying, and over_ what? _Some thin metal rods?_

Then that man came closer, jumped at him, “ _Rah_!” he yelled in Mac’s face, and he flinched, hard, startled—and so completely open, vulnerable, gasping in the breath he needed— _he didn’t realize he was holding his breath—_ the men were laughing again, and his lungs quivered, terrified—the men were laughing, having fun, at his expense, and he knew—

The man moved again, and he flinched again, but he was only reaching for that cart, something on that cart— _what was on that cart, the light wasn’t good enough, there were too many shadows, he couldn’t tell—_ and the man by the cart gave it to him, slowly, gingerly. The man with the tattoo was too hasty, too not-careful, and Mac’s eyes widened when he saw the blue arc of the electricity between the prongs— _cattle prod? No, too long, too thick,_ homemade _cattle prod?_

The man came closer with it, bent down so as to look him in the eyes—he knew his eyes were wide and afraid, he knew that these men were deriving some sick pleasure from doing this to him—and began talking, the tone of his voice implying that he was explaining it to him— _explaining what he wanted? What was going on? What he was going to do to Mac? What? What was he talking about—_ then out of nowhere, ice cold water slammed into him from above—he gasped reflexively and tried to hunker down, twinges of plain flew from his shoulder, his wrists pulled at the screws, water splashing all over him, soaking into his clothes, his shirt—then he couldn’t breathe.

His eyes squeezed themselves closed, his muscles contracted, his lungs seized unable to exhale or inhale— _he felt the electricity throughout his body, gripping his muscles, then releasing them, then gripping again and releasing_ —squeezing, too much squeezing, pulling and burning, and the _heat, it was hot, he was burning and his muscles were wailing—_ then it was over.

Everything was calm, and he gasped in a breath, shallow, wheezing, his throat hurt—had he been screaming again?—but his jaw hurt, his teeth were clenched too tight— _maybe if he opened his mouth he’d be able to breathe better_ —so he did and his head hung, blood dripping from his lip—had he bitten himself?—his wrists hurt more, were on fire, slowly burning him from—

It was the metal. The electricity had made contact with the metal and had heated up—but his head hurt, his hair hurt, his hair was _pulling his scalp_ —and then he was looking directly into the eyes of a man, the man with the tattoos, the man with the fake cattle prod. He had a hand fisted in Mac’s hair— _he really just needed to cut it, so bad guys couldn’t do this so much—_ and he was saying something—Mac wanted to cry from frustration alone, because _he didn’t speak Greek_.

Mac was shaking—out of terror or as a side effect of the electric shock, he didn’t know, he didn’t have time to focus. The man was waving the stick in front of his face, and he released his hair, puled out a knife and began slicing his shirt to pieces—but he didn’t remove it, only opened up a giant cut in the fabric only to jam his side— _pain again, in his muscles, spasming, twitching, pain in his side, burning, electricity burning across his skin, pain in his_ blood, _boiling and—_ the human body is made up of 60% water and water conducts electricity because of the ions and— _his lungs were spasming too, gasping—_ he could breathe this time, inhale and exhale and _breathe_ — _he was able to scream this time—_ but his lungs wouldn’t obey him, rapidly exhaling when he was trying to inhale, and his diaphragm contracted— _he wailed as his lungs forced the air out—_ how long was this going to continue— _it burned, it hurt, he’s eyes were gathering tears again—stop it, stop doing this, stop, it_ hurts _—_ how long was this man going to—when was it going to end—

It stopped. It didn’t hurt anymore, it was gone almost as fast as it came—his wrists still hurt, again he couldn’t help the muscle contractions that pulled on them—they were overheated, _he_ was overheated, his shoulder ached, his knee and ankle—he head was yanked up again, the man was _actually_ pulling on his hair again—he clenched his teeth to stop himself from talking, from murmuring or giving anything away—Jack wouldn’t, Jack would _never_ —he reminded himself, while this imbecile was chatting away, that if he spoke in English then they’d know he didn’t speak Greek, and then worse stuff would happen— _worse stuff was going to happen anyway, sooner or later—No, no it wasn’t because Jack was coming, Jack always came._

The man dropped his hold, and Mac shook his head to clear it, to get a grip because he wasn’t going to give in, he could hold out for as long as Jack needed him to. He noticed he was shaking again, and he really was very cold, that water—but his head wiped to the side, stretching his already sore neck and irritating his shoulder—the man had punched him in his face again, his cheekbone taking the brunt of the impact—but he recovered quickly, turned back to face him and even though his whole body was in agony and the only thing he wanted to do was curl up and fade away, he held himself still, as defiant as he could, the tears in his eyes still intact, _not_ fallen.

Two guys came forward, hands outstretched but empty, and Mac didn’t really have time to shift away before they were tearing at him, at his shirt, and _ripping_ the rest of it the rest of the way off—his eyes lazied around, noticing the fabric as the majority of it fell by the foot of his chair into a puddle of blood and water—then he looked up as they turned to their leader.

The man was displeased, his whole body language gave it away, turning sharply on his men and yelling, pointing that prod at him—though Mac was trembling, though he was scared of these men and terrified of what they would do to him, he still—then there was more water, cold as ice, all over him. His pants were thoroughly soaked, his hair flopping onto his forehead, and he gasped from the shock to his system—gasped once, twice, steadying his breath.

There was the grating squeak of the cart being moved—then the prod was shoved at him, at his torso, and he was jerking again, head thrown back and _shrieking_ , because the prod was burning his flesh, burning his internal organs, burning his _wrists—it was never ending—_ his muscles were tired, sore, aching and straining against his bones, threatening to break his own body apart— _would it ever stop, just stop, it hurts—_ he ran out of breath and rapidly sucked in salty, coppery air, realizing that the tears fell, had fallen, _were falling_ , and that he bit through his lip, blood filling his mouth—but then he needed to breathe out, screaming and jerking and his shoulder was screaming too, the muscles clenching tight, too tight, too painful— _stop stop stop please stop it hurts it hurts it hurts—it went on forever, far too long—_ where was Jack, Jack always saved him, he needed Jack to save him _immediately_ , Jack needed to _stop this_ —

Then it was over, his head hung and rested on his heaving chest, his sobbing chest—he was crying, he was outright crying and sobbing—he knew that it was okay to do so, that he wasn’t any less of a person for breaking under the pain— _the pain that still coursed through his system, his shoulder was twitching, was definitely damaged more than his original assessment, his thighs throbbed, his ankle throbbed, his wrists throbbed, his wrists, his wrists hurt so much it felt as if they’d never ever stop hurting, stop stabbing him—_ he was shaking, not shivering anymore but full-body shaking, and realized that he wasn’t that cold anymore. His shirt was gone so the frigid water wasn’t plastered to his chest anymore, and the water soaked into his pants was strangely warm, too warm, smelled odd, smelled like ammonia— _like urine._

He didn’t think that his humiliation could get worse than this, so he let himself slump in his chair, let himself cry into the pain, let himself beg Jack to come quickly because the man with the Japanese tattoo was coming back, prod extended towards him, extended towards his wheezing chest, and then— _and then he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe, his lungs wouldn’t cooperate, wouldn’t move, and everything was white, and bright, and pain, and pain, and pain, and then darkness._


	3. Chapter 3

He came back with a gasp. At first, he didn’t notice anything besides some stiffness and sore muscles--but then his muscles were twitching and he felt the burning in his veins—before it just fell away. His whole body had stiffened up without his awareness and the lack of current allowed him to relax.

 _Did they shock him into consciousness? How long had he been out? How long had he_ been here _?_

He was shaky— _he’d be shaky for the rest of his stay_ —and he heard laughter being stifled behind him— _they were laughing at him—_ but his attention was pulled to Tattoos when the man crouched to line their sights and backhanded him. He started talking again, but Mac just tuned him out, focusing on normalizing his breathing—the voltage must have messed up the rhythm of his diaphragm— _or was it the amperage? No, it was the Jules? No, no. That wasn’t right either; Jules didn’t pertain to—_ his head was foggy, his memory was not-so-great.

He somehow managed to tune the throbbing in his entire body out, and his eyelids drooped in exhaustion. He was ready to pass out, he could feel it coming on and he wasn’t fighting it. He’d rather be anywhere in the world than here— _Cairo. He’d rather be back in Cairo than here—_ but then a quick, stabbing and burning pain everywhere startled him. He yelped, sat up a little to orient himself, and saw the man with the tattoos withdraw the prod, standing back up to his full height. He had an unpleasant look on his face, one that spelled disaster, that spelled more torture. He must be finally getting frustrated over the lack of response of his prisoner to his particular questioning methods.

Mac’s mind cleared and he sobered at the thought. The man was tired of taking silence as an answer.

Mac couldn’t help the quaking and shivering—partly caused by the frequent electrical current, partly by the fear—Mac might be too tired to physically display the entirety of that fear, but inside he was petrified that Jack wouldn’t come soon enough, wouldn’t make it at all, and would leave Mac here to be tortured to death— _because that’s surely where this was going_ —the man with the tattoos took the prod to the back corner with him, out of Mac’s sight— _he’d surely be tortured to death_.

These men wanted answers—that one _specific_ man wanted _specific_ answers—and they were— ** _he_** _was—_ going to torture Mac until he gave them those answers. But there was the little issue of his not knowing what the _questions_ were. He squeezed his eyes closed as he heard tinkering behind him, squeezed his eyes closed and clenched his teeth, because that man was going to come back—he was changing devices and he was going to come back and it was going to hurt more, more, _more and there was nothing he could do—he didn’t even know the damn questions—how was he going to answer them?_

All he wanted was the pain to stop—footsteps neared him from behind, and he screwed his eyes up more so that the moisture that he could feel forming wouldn’t fall—moisture because he was scared, he was scared they’d hurt him more and his whole body already hurt, already throbbed in tandem with his messed up wrists that never seemed to stop _pulsing in agony_ —terrified of the pain that he _knew_ was coming, and he couldn’t even stop it, couldn’t convince them to stop it, he had nothing, no leverage, no device—usually in situations like this he could empathize, get _them_ to empathize, talk his way out—and in this case, he’d need to give up intel, but this time he couldn’t—he _couldn’t_ give up answers—how was he going to make the pain stop for good _if he couldn’t give answers—_

The electricity was back, and he threw his head back on instinct— _or was it from the jerking of his limbs?_ —his teeth were clenched and he screamed through them. The electricity was back and it was coursing through his every nerve. The point of origin was under his right arm, on his ribcage, and he gasped when it suddenly disappeared. His mind whirled from the whiplash of his nerve endings—how could he feel everything all at once, freezing and burning, drowning in air and suffocating, and then all of a sudden, _there was nothing._ No pain, no residual nerve relays.

How did the brain interpret the signals— _and then it was back, above his belly button, burning his skin and melting his veins, arteries, capillaries—_ he screamed again, but this time his jaw hung open wide, the prod taking its sweet time imparting electrical current into his body, overloading his nerves and brain and sending him reeling, whirling through a volcano before it erupted—he screamed again, and he couldn’t stop the low, guttural howl that mixed with it—it hadn’t gone on this long before and it wasn’t stopping— _it’d never stop, this was his world now, molten lava_ — _magma—_ coursing through his veins, blood no longer existed, he no longer existed, nothing existed, all there was was _pain,_ and so he screamed, but that didn’t even exist.

Then it was over, and he panted for breath, his head hanging with his eyes still shut tight. This time he could feel it, feel the residual current course through him even without the current—he could feel the pain still, could feel the—he gasped in and sobbed out, and he realized he was a mess, with tears freely flowing again— _he hadn’t even realized he was crying, or making such loud, awful sobbing noises, for that matter—_

And then he was hit again, head twisting to the side, but he didn’t feel it, because he was struck by the electricity for the eighth time, his jaw snapping shut so fast he clipped his tongue and his mouth welled with blood, sliding down his throat to pool in his stomach and some dripping over his lips and down the outside of his face, but he didn’t even notice, didn’t think much of it, didn’t think much of anything besides _stop stop stop make it stop please stop_ —he couldn’t take this, couldn’t handle this much pain, he wasn’t trained in torture interrogation, wasn’t even trained in pain management, he _didn’t know how to handle all this pain_ —he just wanted it to stop, he just wanted to sleep, to go home—but he couldn’t breathe and he didn’t care because if he stopped breathing, he’d eventually just _die—please stop please stop please make it stop make it stop make it stop please—_

It did, and he gasped in a breath tinged with pennies, and his throat hurt, so he swallowed those pennies—felt like they got stuck in the lining of his throat it hurt so much—but he had no respite from the pain, no time to properly breathe, and he was struck again, _within seconds of the last time._

This time, he lungs seized up and he couldn’t scream, couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t _exhale_ , and he slammed his head into the back of the wooden chair so hard it threatened to tip over— _hopefully he would knock himself out, and hopefully he’d stay out this time—_ but he didn’t, it didn’t—it just needed more force—he just needed to apply more force to the back of his head and he’d go out like a popped balloon, so he rammed his head back—the chair didn’t move and he was still awake, still feeling _everything_ —he slammed it back again and again nothing, so he tried again _harder—_

The circuit was cut, the current ceased, and he relaxed in his bonds, realizing that his chair was still upright, realizing that he could breathe, could move his tongue, could control the way he _exhaled the air in his lungs_. He started speaking, begging, voice broken and sinuses clogged, throat tearing further with every word.

“Stop. Stop. Stop, stop, stopstopstop—”

But it just started again, and again his world narrowed down to nothing but _pain_ , and _make it stop_ , and _where was Jack_ , and then it was over.

He tried again, gasping and pleading, “Please stop, _please_ stop—”

But the man just narrowed his eyes and looked angry that Mac was trying at all, angry like the kind of angry that Jack looks like when— _where was Jack, where was Jack where was Jack?—_

It started again, and again it went on forever, and again it stopped.

Again he begged, but his jaw was grabbed, his face was yanked upwards and out, pulling him towards someone—probably the man who was hurting him so much, but his jaw was in the man’s grasp, and if he couldn’t move his jaw, how was he going to speak and if he couldn’t speak how was he going to give them the words they need to stop the pain _how was he going to stop the pain_ —

He stopped his thoughts and listened to the man, listened for his question, so that he could provide an answer so that the pain could stop, so that the pain wouldn’t _start over_ —he listened to the man’s question, but it didn’t make any sense— _it didn’t make any sense_. His wide, bloodshot, tear-filled eyes were locked with the man’s and he watched with bated breath as the man became impatient with his lack of answer and he watched as the man prepared to hurt him again, and he really didn’t want to be hurt again so he rushed out an answer. He knew the answer wasn’t really an answer, it was more of a reply, but he had to say _something_ in hopes of at least _delaying_ the pain.

“I don—I don’t understand, what—what was your—what are you—“

The man threw Mac’s jaw to the side in anger and spun around, yelling something at someone, and again, Mac tried to listen, tried to figure out what this man wanted, but what he said made no sense, Mac couldn’t figure out what— _they didn’t understand him, they didn’t know what he was saying—_ then the man spun back around, face lit up angry and Mac’s tears spilled over—he realized that the man was going to hurt him again, was going to—

“No, please don’t, please _don’t_ , _don’t, don_ —“

This time, the man held the prod to his side for so long, Mac passed out choking on his screams before it was removed.

~

He didn’t want to be awake—awareness only brought pain and despair—but he woke on his own this time, slowly, gently. He didn’t move a muscle in hopes that he’d go back under, back to sleep or something, just away from reality with its multiple forms of agony, so he sat there, in the dark, in the quiet, all alone, unmoving. His breathing was back to normal, but he didn’t feel good _at all_. Everything was wrong. Everything was pulsing.

He drifted off a few moments later.

~

Again, he awoke and didn’t move. He woke peacefully again, to dark surroundings, alone, but there was a noise, faint like it was far away—away from him, and so he didn’t care much about it. He just wanted to sleep some more. But then his cell door squeaked—squealed— _whichever_ —and he knew that they knew he was awake. They were coming back to torture him because his answers were unsatisfactory— _what were his answers? What had he told them? He couldn’t remember._

A man entered quickly and came right at him, probably to hit him or break another bone— _more pain_ , and he whimpered at the thought of so much as a paper cut—so he tensed to prepare for the shot—eyes closed, head hung low in hopes to shield his throbbing face from yet another blow— _a blow that never came._

Instead, the man said something, sounded an awful lot like his name, but they didn’t speak English and he didn’t speak Greek, so he couldn’t translate, he didn’t know what the guy wanted, which meant that he would be tortured some more, and there would be more pain—he moaned low in apprehension— _but nothing happened._

Mac sat still, listening, waiting—the man was slowly moving around _—trying to find that awful electric device?_ —but nothing happened. There was the noise of moving around, but nothing else significant, so Mac decided it was best to just slip under again—until something pulled at his wrists, jerked at the metal rods that held him down, that held his _wrists_ down, pierced the very flesh and tendons and bones of his wrists—something tugged sharply and his wrists _flared_. He saw white behind his eyes, and he couldn’t help the scream that his lungs forced out—forced out through vocal cords sore and hurting, so he cut it off as soon as he got a hold of himself, holding his breath, and trying so hard to not move any more than he already had.

He’d lost his hold on reality, he knew. He hadn’t been paying the least bit of attention to what was going on, but maybe he should.

Because _what was that tug? What was this one lone guy doing? Was he talking to Mac? Maybe he should try paying attention—_ why though _—he didn’t speak Greek._

He lifted his head and tried to focus on the person in front of him.

_Was this guy even one of his captors? He wasn’t acting like it. He didn’t look like it._

The guy continued moving around, looking at him, and Mac’s left eye just didn’t want to focus— _maybe it was the lack of light, maybe it was the continual beatings, maybe it was_ —but then the guy started talking, and Mac was able to understand him— _Mac was able to_ understand _, he was talking to him?_

“Package is located.”

What did that mean? Was this guy looking for something that the previous men had—was it their homemade, electrical, torture device?

“I found him, but…”

Found who?— _that was a dumb question, he was the only person in the room_ —wasn’t he?— _so the guy was looking for Mac_?—was he there to rescue him? Was he going to—

“Matty, what’s the ETA on the medics?”

 _Matty_ —Mac knew that name—the man was here for Mac and knew Matty and was calling medics? There’s only one person that could be—the same person Mac had been earnestly praying would find and save him—

“Jack?” His throat hurt, and he couldn’t make his voice very loud at all, but _it had to be Jack, it had to be, from the way the man reacted_ —before Mac could do anything else, the man— _no, it was definitely Jack, because_ —he cupped the base of Mac’s skull, helping to steady his tilting head, and Mac could get a semi-decent look at him.

Jack was talking, but honestly, Mac was so relieved that he didn’t listen, didn’t care, because _Jack was here, Jack was going to save him_ — _was actively saving him—_ and that meant no more bad guys, no more pain, no more screaming and crying and _despair so deep that he wanted to die_ —he was so relieved that his body relaxed in a way that it hadn’t since he’d been united with the chair, his back letting go and his body sliding downwards—until he pulled at his wrists and instant pain shot up his arms, up his shoulders, and stabbed his brain.

He knew he whimpered, and he knew that whimper was pitiful and pathetic, but he didn’t care—Jack was here, Jack would take care of him, Jack would make everything okay—

But Jack was talking to him, and he loved the sound of Jack’s voice so much, “I know, buddy, I know it hurts, but we’re gonna get you outa here real soon, just gotta wait another few minutes.”

And then he said something quick and short to Matty, stuff that Mac didn’t really care about, so he closed his eyes, ready to drift off to the sound of Jack being alive and okay and rescuing him, only to feel Jack gently grab the other side of the back of his head, lift Mac’s head to look him in the eyes, and Jack said, “I don’t know if this is important, but could you stay awake for me? Huh, bud? Just stay awake for a lil bit longer.”

Mac knew protocol, knew that for head injuries, one should make sure the injured person stayed awake in the event of a concussion—but he didn’t have a concussion. That wasn’t why he was falling asleep. He was just tired. _So, so tired_. Therefore, his staying awake wasn’t important, and he was fairly certain he told Jack so because Jack countered with, “You don’t wanna talk to your pal, Jack, just for a few minutes?”

He didn’t have the energy to think up a retort, so he simply smiled, realizing just how much he missed Jack— _which was a lot_ —and just how much he loved Jack— _which was a lot._ Jack always had his back, never let him down, and forever kept himself embedded in Mac’s heart with his gentle care, quick wit, good humor, and dog-like blind loyalty. Jack’s hold was so incredibly gentle that he rested his head in Jack’s palms, relaxing even more, ready— _oh so absolutely ready_ —to drift off, but Jack needed him here, in the present. Mac was worried, and even if Mac knew that staying awake wasn’t important in his case, Jack didn’t know that—Jack was just out-of-his-mind worried—yeah, Mac’d been gone, what, twelve, fifteen hours? Jack must have gone crazy.

He made Jack worry, and he felt incredibly guilty for that, even if he was in a lot of pain. Jack came first, always has, always will, and Mac couldn’t be more grateful to have Jack as his friend.

He drifted off, not quite asleep but not quite awake either, floating around for some time, hearing but not quite listening to Jack’s voice. He was finally free, he was rescued, he was going home. He could rest peacefully now. He didn’t have to be scared or anxious.

But then there was noise, lots of noise, fast and intrusive, hurt his head, pulsing, and he squeezed his eyes closed, trying to block out the _loud_ and he moaned. Maybe Jack would help him, get him out of the chair— _why was he still in the chair? Why hadn’t Jack helped him out yet, why hadn’t Jack rescued him yet?_

His heart rate increased and his breathing sped up. More people came in and he was so confused.

What was going on _now_?

He thought Jack was going to rescue him, so why were they coming back? What were they—why were they—they were coming at him, _coming to hurt him—god he thought it was over, he actually thought it was over, thought Jack was—_ he heard the familiar squeak of the cart and tried to turn his head to see, to see it, the cart, the device, the electricity—but he couldn’t see, there were too many people in the way, people talking, people reaching for him, touching him, _hurting him_.

They were all talking at the same time, he couldn’t understand what their questions were, he couldn’t answer their questions, they were going to hurt him some more— _where was Jack wasn’t he just here where’d he go—_

The cart squeaked closer, and he whimpered— _no, please no, not again—_ he wanted to answer their questions, he did, but he didn’t _know_ their questions, couldn’t understand the words, didn’t know, didn’t know _didn’t know—_

He tried, begged, _please understand what he was trying to say_ , “Don’t know, please, no, no, don’t—I don’t know, please, please _please don’t—_ “

And the hands were on his head, touching his face, cradling his jaw, and he cracked open his tear-filled eyes, saw blurry faces, one big blurry face right in front of him and he sobbed because it looked like Jack, it was just blurry, but it looked like Jack, like Jack was here saving him, looked like Jack was here talking to him, _sounded_ like Jack was here talking to him—

“Mac, look at me, buddy. Mac?”

_It was Jack!_

_Was_ it though?

“It’s just the medics. They’re here to make sure you get home in one piece. They’re not going to hurt you.”

Medics? They were just medics? They weren’t going to torture him?

He blinked, several times, cleared his vision to see that the blur _was_ in fact Jack, and he was cradling Mac’s jaw, his head balanced masterfully, but there was movement on his body, touching his chest, peeling away the damaged shirt scraps, and he knew what that meant, he knew they were going to shock him again, but Jack was there, Jack would stop it—

“ _Mac!_ ”

He just really didn’t want to be shocked again—he looked back up at Jack, looked to see him twisted from the side, his body to the right—and there was still movement, still soft pinches on his arms, soft touches on his wrists—he thought he openly sobbed from _that_ pain, but he couldn’t be sure, Jack was calling him again, very lightly patting his cheek to get his attention— _was he real?_

“Mac, buddy, hey, hey there—“ Mac looked back at him, “—listen to me, Mac, you hafta stay very still, okay?” Jack paused, and Mac was too afraid to look away, too afraid that he’d see them and their cattle prod, afraid that if he looked away, Jack would disappear because he wasn’t real, and that’d mean that Mac was delirious, that he was hallucinating, and he was so afraid that he would—

“Mac, come on, man, I know you’re hearing me, say that you understand, can you do that for me?”

Yeah, he could do that.

He tried nodding because speaking was actually a very difficult thing to do, but either he was too weak or Jack was holding his head too strongly because he didn’t move.

He’d have to answer verbally.

It was weak, it was a whisper, and it was all he had, “I—yeah, und’rst’nd,” he slurred, “st’y—stay still.”

As he sat, watching Jack, feeling the men— _Jack said they were medics, so maybe he should believe him_ —feeling the medics do whatever they were doing, he calmed down from the fear and anxiety, and exhaustion once again fell across his very soul. His eyes involuntarily slipped shut, and he passed out.


End file.
